


I Think I Like It

by verysorrytobother



Series: Talk to Me AU [5]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Bernadette the Pig (mentioned), Christian Holidays, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Ficlet, Fluff, Hanukkah (mentioned), Holidays, Jewish Holidays, John Denver - Freeform, Mystery Trio, Talk to Me AU, another holiday ficlet, these poor boys have no idea what they're doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28253739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: Stan finds presents for him and Ford in the closet.Now they just need to figure out what to get for Fiddleford.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Talk to Me AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056503
Comments: 26
Kudos: 87





	I Think I Like It

“Hey Ford, you gotta come check this out!” 

Ford paused mid-equation, then continued writing. Whatever it was, he was sure it could wait another five minutes. 

A loud _CRASH!_ shook the apartment. 

Alright, maybe not.

He slammed his notebook shut and jumped up from his desk, rushing into the hall. He immediately ran into Stanley, who was frantically gathering up a pile of wrapped boxes. It seemed they had fallen from the top shelf of the closet. 

“Stan,” Ford said, frowning down at the scene, “what are you doing?” 

“Well, I was checkin’ to see if we had any more bleach, ‘cause the one in the kitchen’s all out,” Stan said. “But then I saw _these_ bad boys up in the top, and since you weren’t comin’—”

“You didn’t even wait ten seconds!” 

“—I decided to bring ‘em to you!” He rubbed the back of his head. “Uh, I dropped ‘em, though.” 

“Yes, I can see that,” Ford said drily. He sighed and helped Stan tidy the packages. “If they’re not yours and they’re not mine, then they must be Fiddleford’s. Let’s just put them back and—” He stopped, the tag on one of the boxes catching his eye. “Hang on. This...this has my name on it!” 

Stan clapped his hands and rubbed them together gleefully. “Sweet! Fiddlenerd got us presents!” 

“It seems he—” Ford broke off, raising an eyebrow. “Did...did you just call him _‘Fiddlenerd’_?” 

“Pretty great, huh? Can’t believe it took me this long to come up with it!” 

Ford snorted. “Yes, he is...not going to like that,” he said. He stared down at the present for a moment, considering whether to open it or not. It _was_ addressed to him…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of wrapping paper tearing. Stan was eagerly ripping his own gift open. 

“Stan!” Ford hissed, as if Fiddleford could somehow hear them all the way from Tennessee. “You can’t just _open_ it!” 

“Why not?” Stan asked, frowning. “These are _Christmas_ presents, and since he’s gonna be gone ‘till after New Year’s, that means he _wants_ us to open ‘em without him! Right?” 

“You make a compelling point…” Ford said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But if that’s the case, why didn’t he just tell us about them? Why did he hide them in the closet?” 

“I dunno, he’s a weird dude! Let’s just open ‘em already!” Stan tore off the last of the paper and popped open the box.

First, he pulled out a scarf. Well, Ford _assumed_ it was a scarf—there wasn’t much else the hideous jumble of yarn could be. It appeared to be hand-knitted, and unable to decide whether it was burgundy or maroon. It was lumpy and awful and, in a word, disgusting. 

Both men shuddered. 

“Wasn’t he taking a knitting course this semester to fulfill that humanities requirement?” Ford asked, suddenly remembering. 

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Stan said, nose still wrinkled as he set the scarf to the side. Something still remaining in the box caught his attention, and he stared at the contents for a moment, eyes wide. 

Then, with a face-splitting grin, he held up a coffee mug for Ford to see. 

“Oh,” Ford said, a bit confused as to why Stan was so excited. “He got you your own mug. That was certainly...thoughtful of him.” 

Stan rolled his eyes and shifted the cup so Ford could read the bold lettering embossed on the side.

**_STANLEY “ONE-PUNCH” PINES_ **

“This is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen, and I once saw a one-legged stripper pole dancin’ in stilettos!” Stan said, bouncing excitedly and still grinning ear to ear. “Be right back, I’m gonna go make some coffee!” 

Ford, who was still puzzling over the logistics of a one-legged stripper wearing _plural_ stilettos, called after him, “Make some for me as well!” 

As Stan set to work brewing the coffee, humming to himself all the while, Ford hesitantly unwrapped his own gift. 

There was another ugly scarf, this one a puke-colored mix of beige and olive green. Ford didn’t even want to know where Fiddleford had found such revolting yarn. 

After checking to make sure Stan was still busy, Ford tried it on and inspected his reflection in the bathroom mirror. 

He shuddered again and took it off. 

Next, he pulled out a pack of some rather nice ballpoint pens. He smiled—these ones looked sturdy enough to withstand his chewing habit, at least for a while.

“We’ve got a problem,” Stan said, coming back into the room with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Fidds got _me_ a present, which means now I hafta get _him_ one. So I’m not indebted to him or whatever. You’ve known him longer, any ideas?” 

“Sorry, what was that?” Ford asked, still admiring his new pens. 

“What kinda nerd-junk does he like?” 

“Oh…” Ford turned to him like a deer caught in the headlights. “I, ah...I’m not entirely sure.” 

Stan stared at him. “Well, what did _you_ get him?” 

Ford rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. 

Stan almost dropped both mugs.

“Sixer, are you kiddin’ me?” he yelled. “You’ve lived with the dude for, what, four years now? _Please_ tell me you’ve at least gotten him stuff in the past.” 

Ford had the good grace to look ashamed. Stan set down the coffee so he could face-palm. 

“Wow. _Wow,_ ” he said. “What kinda boyfriend _are_ you?” 

Ford spluttered indignantly. “He is _not_ my boyfriend!” 

“Uh huh, whatever you say.”

“Is this about the chemical burns incident? I thought we’d cleared that up!” 

“The point is,” Stan said, “he got _us_ Christmas presents, so we’re gettin’ _him_ somethin’.” 

Ford gave him a funny look. “Stan...we’re Jewish.” 

“Not practicing. And hey, if it makes ya feel any better, we can call it a late Hanukkah gift.”

Ford finally sighed and nodded. “Alright, then. What should we give him?” 

* * *

“No. No. No, no, no, no, no!” Ford frustratedly crossed off each entry of their brain-storming list before tearing out the paper and crumpling it up. It landed among the dozens of other balled-up papers littering the living room. 

Stan groaned and face-planted onto the couch. “It shouldn’t be this hard,” he said, his voice muffled by the cushions. “Can’t you just, like, build him a robot or somethin’?” 

“Anything I could build, he could undoubtedly build better,” Ford said. “And if he felt the need for a robotic assistant of any kind, I’m sure he would have created one himself by now.” 

Stan groaned again. They sat for a while in silence. 

“Perhaps we should go into town,” Ford eventually suggested. “We could buy him a shirt, or...a bathrobe, or...well, at this point, anything is better than just sitting here.” 

“Amen,” Stan said, sitting up. 

They grabbed their coats. Stan wrapped his new scarf around his neck, prompting a raised eyebrow from Ford. 

“What?” Stan snapped, blushing. “It’s cold out. I have to.” 

Ford rolled his eyes and locked the door behind them. 

* * *

The perfect gift turned out to be just down the street. 

“Tickets, tickets for sale,” a man on the corner said, waving the small slips in the air. “See John Denver in concert, January 6th, John Denver tickets…” 

Stan’s jaw dropped. He turned to Ford, who wore an equally flabbergasted expression. 

Without a word, Stan rushed over. 

He almost slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk, and barely managed to keep himself upright. Ford chuckled and trailed behind. 

“Hi, yeah, how much for those tickets?” Stan asked the man breathlessly. 

“Fifteen bucks a piece.” 

“What?!” Stan yelled. “That’s ridiculous!” 

“Hey, that’s what I paid for ‘em, buddy. If you don’t like the price, someone else will.” 

Ford arrived at Stan’s side, frowning. “What’s the matter? Fifteen dollars isn’t so unreasonable for a concert, especially on such short notice.” 

“Yeah, but we need three tickets!”

“... _Why?_ ” 

“Well, it’s not much of a present if Fidds has to go all by himself!” Stan said, as if it should be obvious. 

Ford stared at him. “I...guess that makes sense,” he finally conceded. “But where are we going to get forty-five dollars? I have some cash stashed away, but it can’t be much more than twenty.”

Stan sighed. “Yeah, I already checked. Twenty-two dollars.” 

Ford opened his mouth to ask why Stan had been going through his money, then decided against it. 

“Look,” the salesman said, “are you gents gonna buy the tickets or not? I don’t got all day.” He paused, wrinkling his brow at Stanley. “Man, that is one ugly scarf.” 

Stan flushed bright red and clenched his fists. Ford quickly stepped between them. 

“We’ll take one ticket for now,” he said, thinking, _This way, we’ll have a present for Fiddleford no matter what._

The man handed Ford a ticket and held out an outstretched palm for the money.

Ford turned to Stan. 

Stan frowned. “What?” 

“Could you give him the money?” 

“I don’t _have_ the money.” 

“What?! You said you counted it, I thought you had it!” 

“I wasn’t just gonna take your money without permission! I thought _you_ had it!” 

As they fell into bickering, the man looked back and forth between them like he was watching a tennis match. After about five minutes, he snatched the ticket back from Ford and stomped off to find a new street corner. Ford, who was busy gesturing angrily, didn’t even notice.

By the time they realized the salesman was gone, both of them were out of breath and shivering from the cold. They spun around frantically, trying to see where he’d might’ve gone. But it was no use. Even if they _did_ find him, he certainly wouldn’t be selling to _them._

They met each other’s eyes and sighed in unison.

“We blew it,” Stan said, hanging his head. “Man, that would’ve been perfect.”

“A nice call-back, for sure,” Ford said. He thought for a moment. “Though, it might be for the best. We probably would have ended up running through town, frantically taking odd jobs in an attempt to earn as much money as possible before the last two tickets could be sold.” 

Stan laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. That sounds exhausting.” 

Ford hummed in agreement, and the two walked back to the apartment.

“You know, Stan, I’m really not in a relationship with Fiddleford.” 

“Yeah, I know. It’s just too much fun ta tease you, is all.” 

“...Well, I was just going to say that projection is completely natural when—”

“Shut up, poindexter.” 

“Shutting up.” 

* * *

Fiddleford opened the door, setting his luggage and banjo down. “Howdy, fellas! Didja miss me? ‘Cause boy, have I got a story ta tell! So there’s this pig, Bernadette, and—” 

He looked up, his jaw dropped. 

Stan and Ford were standing there with their hands behind their backs and his handmade scarves around their necks. 

Fiddleford grinned. “Aww, ya really like ‘em?”

The Pines twins quickly nodded. 

“Yes, wonderful craftsmanship,” Ford said. 

“Super warm,” Stan added. 

“That’s great!” Fiddleford said, hugging both of them. “I completely forgot ta tell you guys ‘bout yer presents! I’m so glad ya found ‘em.” He pulled back from the hug, frowning as he noticed that neither of them had returned the embrace. “Is somethin’ the matter?” 

Stan looked to Ford, and Ford nodded. 

In sync, they each revealed a wrapped box from behind their backs.

Fiddleford gasped and clapped his hands together. “Fer me? Ya shouldn’t have!” he said, smiling even brighter. Then he paused. “...Matter o’ fact, I didn’t think ya _would_. I’m guessin’ this was Stanley’s idea?” 

“Yes, we get it, I’m a terrible friend,” Ford grumbled, handing Fiddleford his present. 

Fiddleford sat down on the couch and began excitedly unwrapping them.

In one was a theoretical quantum mechanics book. Fiddleford suppressed a grin—he recognized it as an established occupant of Ford’s bookshelf. Leave it to Stanford to re-gift an old textbook.

“I love it!” he said, then noticed something else in the box. He pulled out the massive jar of jelly beans and let out a low whistle. “Dang, Stanford, this is an awful lot of jelly beans...I’m not sure I can eat ‘em all on my own.” 

Ford perked up. “Well, I _was_ thinking that if you needed assistance, I would be more than happy to—”

“Alright, open mine, Fiddlenerd,” Stan broke in impatiently.

Fiddleford began to open the gift. Then he stopped, glancing back at Stan. “Did...did you just call me... _‘Fiddlenerd’_?”

Stan beamed proudly. Fiddleford sighed, rolled his eyes, and opened the present.

Inside was a substantial stack of paper slips. Each one had a crude representation of Stan’s face drawn in the center, with the word “Stancoupon” scribbled across the bottom. 

“It was gonna be ‘Stan-pon,’ but that sounded too close ta somethin’ else,” Stan said. 

Fiddleford flipped one over. On the back, it said, “One day free of mockery.” He turned over another one. It said, “One custom apology.” He sifted through them—there were at least a hundred, all redeemable for rewards such as “One hour of silence,” “One mostly-sincere compliment,” and “One boxing lesson.” Fiddleford laughed. 

“These’re great!” he said, hugging both twins again. “Thanks, fellas!” 

They blushed and stammered awkward “you’re welcome”s. Fiddleford caught Stan signing something to Ford. Ford began to sign back, but as soon as he noticed Fiddleford looking, he quickly stopped. Internally, Fiddleford sighed. He was going to have to borrow Stan’s ASL book one of these days. 

As he pulled his luggage towards his bedroom, he stopped in front of the hall closet. It was open, and colorful wrapping paper glinted in the top. He frowned and took it down. “You guys didn’t open yer last present!” he called. 

“Wait, what?” Stan said, skidding into the hall faster than Fiddleford thought possible. “That’s for _us_?” 

“It didn’t have a name on it, so we didn’t want to risk opening it,” Ford explained. 

“Oh, I must’ve forgot.” Fiddleford shrugged. “It’s kinda fer all three of us, anyhow.”

Ford took the present from Fiddleford. “Alright, Stan, we can each unwrap half of it—” he started, but Stan grabbed it out of his hands and tore off the paper. 

Ford huffed and snatched the box back, opened it…

And froze. 

“What? What is it?” Stan asked, peering over Ford’s shoulder. His eyes widened, and he immediately burst out laughing. 

Fiddleford looked confused. “I dunno what’s so funny, but I thought it could be fun. It’s on the sixth, so you better not make any other plans! These cost fifteen bucks apiece.” 

Ford was laughing now as well, clutching the John Denver concert tickets in one hand and wiping his eyes with the other. Fiddleford gradually joined in, even though he didn’t know _why_ they were laughing. The apartment smelled strongly of gingerbread and mistletoe.

Stan wrapped an arm around each of them.

“Merry Christmas, nerds.” 

"Aren't ya Jewish?"

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! I've never done an author's note before. I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read this series so far! I appreciate every single one of you! I haven't responded to all of the comments yet, but I will.  
> This started out as an angsty one-shot, and I half expected no one to even read it, much less LIKE it. But thanks to the support and validation you've given me, I have so many ideas for the continuation of this AU. So again, thank you!  
> Like I said, I'm pretty new to this, but I was wondering if requests in relation to this series would interest anybody? Each title is a song (except for Take Me Home, that one doesn't count), and I was thinking that maybe the first person to accurately tell me which band I'm referencing could make request. Like a Stancoupon! Sort of.  
> That might be a stupid or cringey idea, and if it is, I apologize. I'm probably going to delete this note.  
> Happy holidays, everyone!


End file.
